


I'll hit the lights and you lock the doors

by wordsinpaper



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-23 23:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18559546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsinpaper/pseuds/wordsinpaper
Summary: “There’s definitely something going on here.”Quentin chuckles humorlessly. “No, Eliot. There is definitely nothing going on here, just as you wanted it to be.”“What?”“That’s – you can’t expect things to just go back to normal. Not so fast, ok?”“What needs to go back to normal?” Eliot asks, even if part of him is already connecting the dots.“This. Us. Everything. I don’t know.”--Set between 3x05 and 3x06, but diverts from canon after that. I couldn't just let it be, so here we are.





	I'll hit the lights and you lock the doors

**Author's Note:**

> I got the title -- as well as the overall inspiration to write a scene where these characters actually talk about stuff instead of sweeping it under the rug and then repressing it for all eternity (I'm looking at you, Eliot Waugh) -- from the song "Let's Hurt Tonight" by OneRepublic.
> 
> This is set sometime between 3x05 and 3x06 (and disregards the canon that follows, for reasons that will be made obvious), but takes into account the scene from 4x05 as well. Y'all know what I'm talking about.
> 
> All mistakes are mine. I've shelved my writing for quite a few years now and had to dust off my creativity box to pull this out of a complicated mess of feelings and into sentences that made sense, so chances are you'll find something I missed. Also, it's my first time writing these characters, so I'm sorry if they sound a bit off.

 

Quentin’s hunched over a notebook, writing something down, and surrounded by another handful of open books when Eliot finds him.

He holds back for a long moment, quietly leaning against the doorframe and allowing himself to take Quentin in. Little flashes of a past life assault his mind and Eliot sighs inwardly and forces himself to drop it. Lingering on it will only mess with all the feelings he’d locked inside a metaphorical box.

“Hey,” he greets softly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.

Quentin startles, notebook almost falling off his lap, but he quickly recovers, pushing his hair away from his face in one of his most typically awkward gestures.

“Hey,” he breathes back, not even looking up at Eliot.

And, okay, that shouldn’t sting the way it does.

“Margo told me to come find you. Any news?” He asks instead, taking a seat across from Quentin.

The other man sighs, puts his pencil down and leans back in his chair.

“I told her not to bother you. I haven’t found anything yet.”

He rubs at his eyes and then leans forward again, flipping another page. Eliot marvels at the small organized chaos that Quentin spread all over the wooden table between them. It brings up yet more memories of long, sunny days when he would take a break and let Quentin take over the mosaic for a little while. He’d watch Quentin spread the colorful tiles all over, trying his hand at a new pattern on his own. Amazingly, he always knew just where to find that one red tile buried under tens of other colored ones when he needed it.

He clears his throat and lets his elbows rest on the table, eyes flicking between Quentin’s finger dragging along lines and lines of tiny black font and his moving lips as he reads along.

“I didn’t know you were back,” he casually drops into the conversation. Or maybe not so casually, judging by the way Quentin’s finger stops mid-sentence, taps the page once and slides away from the book. When Eliot looks up, Quentin is focused on the notebook laying open before him.

“I got distracted trying to solve this,” he starts, gesturing at the quest book perched on another pile of books Eliot hadn’t even noticed next to Quentin. “And, like I said, I haven’t found anything yet and didn’t want to take you away from your king duties.”

Eliot scoffs. “Not that I’ve been deciding much by myself lately, what with the Fairy Queen always whispering in my ear.”

Quentin looks up briefly, but soon diverts his gaze again to the page he’d been reading. He takes a few notes in silence. Eliot waits patiently.

“I haven’t been sitting here for long anyway.” Quentin’s expression takes on a different tone for a second there. “I happened to cross paths with Margo when I almost ran her over while bringing all these books here. That’s why…” He lets that unfinished thought linger, gesturing around.

“That’s okay,” Eliot replies when it becomes obvious that Quentin won’t say anything further. “You don’t need to give me all the details. I’m just glad you’re back here now.”

Quentin shifts in his seat and Eliot wonders if maybe that’s something he should keep to himself next time.

“So how’s the Earth team doing?” He changes the subject, leaning back in his seat and resting his hands on his lap.

“Uh… they’re – we’re trying to figure out what our next step is. We all have some books to research.” He pauses and looks up at Eliot.

And he knows that look. It’s the look he’d give him when a particular pattern was halfway done and Eliot had spent all that time sitting on his chair and enjoying the warmth of the Fillorian sun. It was usually followed by Quentin finding the nearest object and throwing it at Eliot, demanding he get off his ass and help move things along. He swallows and brushes all those memories away.

“Is – are you trying to ask me to help?”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “They’re books, Eliot. They’re not going to bite you.”

Eliot raises a finger. “Actually–”

“El,” Quentin interrupts. “We really need to find out where the next key is. The faster we get all of them together, the faster we’ll get magic back. And you’ll finally get to rule your kingdom and do something about the fairies. That’s something to look forward to, right?”

Eliot lets out a deep sigh, grabs the book closest to him and starts reading. He’s so fucking whipped, it’s not even funny.

After a particularly confusing and boring paragraph that Eliot is sure he’ll have to read again for the eighth time before it starts to make any sense, he gets lost in time again. He looks at Quentin from the top of the old book in his hands. He sees him squint at some line and bite his lip, grabbing his pencil again and writing a few quick, fluid lines of text on his notebook.

He’s drawn back into memory land once more. He remembers Teddy sitting at the small table outside, struggling with a drawing. Eliot put his tile work on hold and braced himself against the wooden ladder. He allowed himself a break to watch the scene unfold in front of him.

He couldn’t hear exactly what was happening from all the way over the other corner of the mosaic, but Teddy was gesturing a lot and pointing at the white paper sheet in front of him, huffing frustratingly. Eliot watched as Quentin patiently took one of the colored pencils and started sketching something, tongue peeking out while doing so.

Eliot can’t quite remember what it was anymore, but he remembers Teddy’s loud groan of “Daddy, that’s not what it looks like! You draw even worse than me!” and Quentin looking up at Eliot. Their eyes met and he shrugged before the most joyful laugh ripped its way out of his chest. He ruffled Teddy’s hair, left him to it and joined Eliot at the mosaic.

Back in the present, Eliot smiles and lets his foot find Quentin’s under the table. He doesn’t look up, but Eliot sees the way his fingers twitch and he finally releases his bitten lip. Eliot just can’t help but gravitate towards Quentin and all the blurred lines are starting to become a problem.

He goes back to the boring paragraph with an unhappy smile and a disheartened exhale. He could almost swear he saw Quentin’s lips twitch from the corner of his eye. They work in silence for a while longer until Eliot’s curiosity gets the best of him.

“You got these books from Brakebills, right?”

Quentin continues writing. “Your point?”

Eliot puts the book down, careful to keep it open on the page he’s currently reading.

“How come everyone is doing this together back on Earth and you dragged all of these here?”

That gets a reaction. More spluttering and scrambling.

“Wh– I– That’s neither here nor there, Eliot.”

He leans forward, assessing the fumbling mess that is Quentin in front of him, eyes flying across the pages – and Eliot can tell it’s too fast for him to be reading anything – one hand reaching to push his hair behind his ear.

“Well, it’s certainly _somewhere_ , going by that extensive reaction.”

Quentin finally pushes the book away and places his notebook and pencil on the table. He looks up at Eliot. “Look, we have important work to do here and this is not relevant to any of it, okay?” He sighs and gets up. “I think I’m onto something, but I could use a break right now.”

Eliot is on his feet immediately, careful to mark the page on the book before he lets it drop on the table.

“Wait, wait,” he says urgently as he goes around the table to grab Quentin’s arm before he can make his way to the door. “There’s definitely something going on here.”

Quentin chuckles humorlessly. “No, Eliot. There is definitely _nothing_ going on here, just as you wanted it to be.”

That chills Eliot on the inside. Failing to make any connections, he frowns. “What?”

Quentin pulls his arm away from Eliot’s grasp and shakes his head. “Never mind me. I’m tired. And hungry, I think.”

“Quentin,” Eliot calls with a pleading tone. It works. Quentin stops and looks up at the ceiling before turning around.

“That’s – you can’t expect things to just go back to normal. Not so fast, ok?”

“What needs to go back to normal?” Eliot asks, even if part of him is already connecting the dots.

“This. Us. Everything. I don’t know.”

Eliot watches as Quentin’s shoulders drop and he leans against the wall behind him in defeat. Still, his eyes find Eliot’s and suddenly there’s this burst of emotions directed at him, and he can actually feel them coming like waves crashing against the shore.

“You know, sometimes I remember things. When I’m dreaming, mostly. Except they’re not really dreams. I _know_ they’re not, because I can _feel_ it. As if I’m right there again. And it’s overwhelming. It’s all the good, all the bad. The love; the _loss_. It’s all there. And here.” He says, pointing at his chest. He has a devastated look on his face, like a man resigned to never get his happy ending. “You can’t ask me to throw all of that away overnight. That’s not how it works, El.”

He finally breaks eye contact with Eliot, choosing to look down instead. Eliot clears his throat.

“I want you to know that it was never my intention to minimize any of that. I… I remember those things too. Quite often, if you must know. I wasn’t telling you you should forget about all of it. I wouldn’t want that, Q. I was merely saying that you have a chance to have another family here and you should take it, that’s all.”

“And I want that, Eliot. With you. I want another fifty years, if we even make it that far.”

Eliot shakes his head, his heartbeat quickening, and starts pacing. “No. That’s not… you have Alice here.”

“Alice?” Quentin interrupts, in a confused yet slightly hysterical tone. Eliot ignores it.

“Or someone else. You’re a lovely person, Q, and whoever’s lucky enough to have you–”

“I’m not a fucking trophy, Eliot,” he snarls in response. “No one gets to _have me_ like I’m some sort of prize you earn for your good fucking deeds.”

Eliot stops in place and gulps. There’s guilt coming over him now. “I didn’t…” he backtracks. Reassesses. “All I’m saying is that you have a choice here.”

“And you won’t let me choose you!”

His voice echoes in the room and he looks slightly ashamed of it, like hearing those words reverberating around him only multiply the pain of being rejected. Because that’s what Eliot sees in his face now. It’s like they’re back in that throne room only a few days ago. It feels _awful_. How the hell did he get himself into this situation again?

“You’re not really considering all your options, Q.”

“Oh, God.” Quentin starts, rubbing at his face in quick, frustrated motions. He starts pacing around. “Why are you so fucking stubborn? Why can’t you trust that I know what I’m doing? Are you really going out of your way to get me to not choose you? Because, honestly, all you need to do is tell me you don’t want it. This is not a one-way street, you know? If you don’t want to be with me, then I’ll …” It hangs heavy in the air for a second. It hangs heavier on Eliot’s heart. “But don’t make it sound like this will never happen because I won’t ever choose you again. That’s not what’s happening here.”

When he finally lets it all out, he’s standing right in front of Eliot, chest heaving, cheeks flushed with anger and finger stabbing against Eliot’s chest.

And, _god_ , Eliot _loves him so much_. He doesn’t even know where to start unpacking all of that. So he doesn’t. After a few seconds in silence, Quentin seems to deflate.

“You asked me why I brought the books here.”

They both watch as Quentin’s accusatory finger slides down until it’s now his palm pressed against Eliot’s chest. The adrenaline coursing through his veins makes Eliot’s heart skip a beat or two. He’s sure Quentin felt it, but he’s strangely at peace with it.

“They’re our friends and I love them, but my home is here. This is where I want to be,” he confesses in a shy whisper.

“Fillory?” he asks, just as quietly, overcome with emotion for reasons he’s not quite ready to face yet.

“ _You_ , you dumbass,” Quentin adds in a slightly whiny tone.

And there it is again. A _moment_. His hands anchor themselves on Quentin’s hips against his better judgment.

“So you _chose_ to be here instead, is what you’re telling me.”

Quentin looks up at him and Eliot can see it in his eyes before he speaks it.

“What I’m telling you is that I’ve been trying to do that since I read my own letter addressed to Margo. Since you bit on that peach and we were overwhelmed with memories of–” he pauses for a small chuckle, “the fucking _beauty of all life_. You’re the one hitting the brakes on us here.”

Eliot smiles small, but real.

“Peaches and plums, huh?”

Quentin doesn’t reply, but instead raises himself on his tiptoes, one hand on Eliot’s chest, the other on his shoulder, and presses his lips against Eliot’s. In response, Eliot inhales and presses his hands to the small of Quentin’s back, helping to support him. He tilts his head and bends down a little to make it easier for the both of them. Quentin’s hand curls on his shirt, while one of Eliot’s hands travels up his back until it reaches Quentin’s neck and finds its home there.

Quentin’s breathing stutters and his mouth opens slightly before claiming Eliot’s lips again for another kiss. Shortly after, he pulls back and Eliot’s lips follow him almost instinctively. Which, to be fair, is probably the result of 50 years’ worth of muscle memory. Their eyes meet.

“Shit,” Eliot breathes. “Wait, I–” he pulls away and lets all the emotions wash over him. His breathing quickens and his brain short-circuits for a second. “This is not– I’m not used to this. It’s– overwhelming me a little.”

Quentin nods and reaches out a cautious hand, making sure it’s okay with Eliot. He places it on Eliot’s upper arm and rubs it lightly.

“It’s okay. No pressure. I– I shouldn’t have just kissed you like that, sorry.”

Eliot’s head is still spinning and his heart still feels like it’s gonna jump out of his chest, but that doesn’t sound right at all.

“No, no. I… I wanted it. I just. What if it doesn’t work, Q? What if we’re just setting ourselves up for disappointment and heartbreak?”

Quentin’s soft gaze tries to meet his scared one.

“We’ve done it before.”

“In a different time and place. With way fewer variables. I don’t want to mess us up and not be able to return from that.”

“We … we can wait. Or… if you don’t want to, that’s– I mean,” Quentin fumbles a little, looking anywhere but Eliot.

Eliot closes his eyes and blindly reaches for Quentin, shaking his head assertively, trying to send Quentin the message his brain seems unable to translate into words at the moment. The idea of losing this _again_ … No, he definitely wants this, he just doesn’t really know how to navigate it.

Quentin steps closer and lets Eliot’s hands find his sides, and Eliot grips him, hands shaking just a little, a deep breath stumbling on the way to his lungs.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Quentin huffs a small chuckle.

“Sorry, but I’m pretty sure that’s gonna happen at some point, even if it’s over something small. But we’ll get over it. We’ve had many arguments before and we came out of it stronger.”

It all seems so logical. How can Quentin just bottom-line it like that when he’s still struggling with how real this all is? Not that it wasn’t real in Fillory. It was. The fact that they still remember all those decades proves it. But they had a _goal_ while they were there. The relationship came as a bonus. A great bonus, but still not something that was exactly planned.

This right here? They’re _talking_ about it. They’re pouring out feelings and desires for their future. And Quentin still wants to be with him after he turned him down the first time around. There are no words to express the amount of hope that’s flourishing in Eliot’s chest. He feels so giddy.

“So,” he starts, footing steadier and playful tone, “what you’re saying is you really miss the hot make-up sex.”

Quentin laughs and slaps his arm, his cheeks taking on a brilliant pink hue and a big smile blossoming.

“I honestly don’t know why I love you.”

But he’s lying. Eliot knows. He feels the same.

“I don’t really care about the why here. I’m just glad you do, because I love you, too.”

This seems to bolster something in Quentin and Eliot feels his hand on the side of his neck, soft and gentle.

“Then give us a chance, El,” he whispers, seriousness returning to his tone. “Let me choose you. Let _yourself_ choose me. Choose us. We can do it all over again. We can even do it better now. We’ve learned a lot from our past life, haven’t we?”

More flashes of Fillory, of moments when Eliot’s confidence cracked and Quentin ever so gently reaffirmed it. In small touches, in encouraging smiles, in sweet caresses, and long loving nights. There’s no way he’d say no to more of that. He did it once and almost lost this precious thing between them.

Eliot is nodding before he’s even processed what he’s doing. He pulls Quentin in again and kisses his uncertain smile. They lose themselves in it for a long while before the need for oxygen and straight backs get the best of them. Eliot can’t help himself from caressing Quentin’s cheek and watching with delight as he melts into it.

Ok, they’re really doing this, then! But first…

“So the quest? What do you think you’ve found?”

Quentin grins up at him.

“I think you’ll love this. If I’m right, we’ll need a boat.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...and then they sailed off into the sunset together. Or, well, not the sunset exactly, but they totally went looking for the next key together, because Margo and co can totally look after Fillory for a little bit while Eliot goes on a boating quest with the love of his life.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://wordsputtopaper.tumblr.com/). I'm open to thoughts, feelings, suggestions and even prompts when the mood strikes. I'm always open for hugs and new friends, though.


End file.
